ItTakesaThief

by Dee Brice

  “How genteel.” Her sneer faded when a band broke into a hot rendition of one of Elvis’ early hits. Her hips began to sway. Her feet moved her forward to the beat of the music. She tossed Nick a smile over her shoulder, then followed a hostess up the spiral wrought-iron staircase, through a throng of gyrating dancers, to a table marked “Reserved.” If she hadn’t hoped to get a lead on the person who had stolen the real Belt she might enjoy herself. But work came first.

  Leaning close, she said in Nick’s ear, “You have some influential friends.”

  Nick grinned, removed her cape, then draped it over the back of her chair. Settling, TC looked around. Most of the men were costumed as conquistadors, others wore the garb of Spanish grandees. The women’s costumes ranged from geographically incorrect Mayan princesses to those of the valid Muisca, complete with the intricate gold jewelry for which that tribe was famous. TC felt a twinge of pride that only she wore the stately garb of Queen Isabella. Her smug smile faded, however, when she realized every woman in sight wore a replica of Isabella’s Belt.

  “It’s the theme for tonight’s fiesta,” Nick explained when the band took a break.

  “I suppose they’re all fakes, just like mine is.”

  “Probably, but nowhere near the quality of yours. Are you sure yours is a fake?”

  TC ran her fingers over the cabochon emerald that formed the centerpiece of the Belt, the belt Nick had brought from Ian’s hotel suite last night. “I told you to have it authenticated,” she said, her voice icy even to her own ears.

  “I don’t think you’re lying, Tiff—TC. I just wish we could recover the real Belt and find the murderer.”

  “Maybe we’re looking in the wrong place.” She sighed, then twitched her shoulders and sat up straighter. “Maybe the Belt is in Europe.”

  Leaning forward as if to ensure nobody overheard, he said, “Why do you think it never left Colombia?”

  She shrugged. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Here’s how it goes down when a major heist occurs. First, there’s shocked silence, like everybody’s holding one long, collective breath. Next come the whispers, the speculation as to who took it and whether or not the item will be sold as is or broken up. Then the rumors start and you begin to hear names. Among the impossible, you hear the improbable. Finally, if you’re lucky, you come up with a few possibles and then one or two names that are not only possible, but probable.”

  “So what’s different this time?”

  “Nothing’s happening. No whispers, no speculation. Nada. Zip. Zilch. The silence is deafening.”

  “Which led you here.” Nick settled back in his chair.

  She shrugged again. “If you don’t hear anything at one end, try the other.” She glanced over Nick’s left shoulder, glaring at him. There was only one way Ian Soria could have known where she would be tonight. Nick had told him. “Unless you want me to make a scene, you’ll keep him away from me.”

  Nick looked over his shoulder, then turned to her with a placating smile. “Ian isn’t the only one we have to worry about. Look over your shoulder, Tiff.”

  She did. “Vultures gathering for the kill,” she muttered as she stood. Stepping away from the table, she headed away from Emilio Santana, Sir James Foster and Charles Cartierri. Better the devil she knew than a pack of unpredictable curs.

  “Dance with me,” she demanded, then put her arms over Ian Soria’s magnificent shoulders. She knew Spanish grandees often padded their doublets to make their chests appear deeper, their shoulders wider. Even before she touched him, TC knew Ian needed no such artifice.

  “I missed you, Tiffany darling.”

  “Last night was the longest, most miserable night of my life,” TC admitted, delighted when passion and some indefinable something more flared in his dark eyes. Last night she’d made a tactical error. Last night she had made him aware of the depth of her distrust and had given him time to formulate another plan. Tonight she intended to correct those mistakes. From now on, she wouldn’t let him out of her sight. If he intended to kill her, he’d have to do it face-to-face. He’d dogged her steps for days on end. From now on, she’d be his shadow.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  “We cannot. If we run, they will only follow.”

  From her breasts to her toes, she felt his gaze roam over her. Breathless with sudden longing, she managed to say, “Then I suppose we must confront the inevitable.”

  “Si, querida, I think we must.”

  Like synchronized swimmers, they glided back to the table where Nick waited with TC’s detractors.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Charles Cartierri demanded in a belligerent voice.

  “Now, Charles,” Sir James soothed, “stay calm.”

  “I insist you arrest her,” Emilio Santana bellowed over the band’s rendition of a Little Richard song.

  “For what?” Nick asked.

  “For stealing my emeralds.”

  “For stealing paste?” TC shouted back, then shot an apologetic glance at Nick for betraying his confidence. No one except the two of them was to know the unset emeralds were merely green glass.

  “I think we should adjourn to someplace quieter and more private,” Ian suggested, draping TC’s cape over her shoulders.

  “I agree,” Sir James said, smoothly guiding both Emilio Santana and Charles Cartierri toward the stairs.

  “I thought you couldn’t get in here without a costume,” TC said to Nick.

  “Mere mortals require costumes,” Ian observed with a wry smile. TC felt his arm tense under her hand and saw that his eyes shifted constantly, reminding her of a Secret Service agent she had dated once.

  “Jesu,” Nick muttered.

  TC followed his gaze to find George Fox staring at her. Sensing he would like nothing better than to clap her in handcuffs, she shivered. Determined not to let him see her fear, she lifted her chin and marched up to the little man dressed like a Spanish Napoleon.

  “Perhaps you would like to join us, Mr. Fox.”

  “Some other time, Ms. Cartierri. Or should I say Señora Soria? I…checked the hotel register.”

  She forced a smile. “I should have known we couldn’t fool you, Mr. Fox.”

  “Are you mocking me, Ms. Cartierri?”

  “Heavens, no. I’m simply curious as to how you knew I was at the Luxembourg.”

  “You have great legs. Later, after I watched the security camera tapes, I recalled your slave bracelet.” A slight shrug accompanied his speech.

  “Thank you, Mr. Fox, for your candor. And for the compliment.” She stepped away, then turned back. “One other thing, if you please. Ian always refers to you as George, so why do you call him Hunter?”

  “Code— It’s his name.”

  “Thank you again, Mr. Fox.” As she walked away, she sensed George Fox was trying to signal Ian, but his efforts seemed uninspired. Had the supposed slip been deliberate? After Nick’s betrayal—telling Ian where she would be tonight— she didn’t know whom she could trust.

  Looking directly at Ian, the man to whom she had given her heart, the man who had repeatedly betrayed her, she said, “I think you ought to confiscate every one of those belts. There’s a chance one of them might be the real thing.” Without a backward glance, she pushed by Ian and Nick, barely aware of the throng that protected her from pursuit.

  Last night had been the longest night of her life. Tonight threatened to be even longer, but she had changed her mind. Somehow, she had to get away from Ian Soria. Spotting Charles Cartierri and his contingent outside the revolving door, TC veered left and, after several wrong turns, managed to find a back door.

  Now what? she wondered as she picked her way through the garbage-strewn alley and struggled against her tears. She couldn’t go back to Nick’s cottage. In all probability that was the first place Hunter would look for her. And certainly Nick would experience no feelings of disloyalty for telling Hunter where she had spent last night. Not if what she now suspected
—that Nick and his friend were both law enforcement officers—was true. Nor could she go to Charles Cartierri, who always believed the worst of her.

  Sighing defeat, she allowed a few tears to seep from her closed eyes and conceded that even Sir James seemed to have shut his heart to her. Who else could have sent that damning evidence to Interpol?

  She opened her evening bag and withdrew a handkerchief, then daubed at her eyes. Returning the hanky to its place, she discovered the key to the suite she had shared with Ian Soria. Or whatever his name was.

  It afforded temporary refuge at best, but at least she should have a few hours before he returned. A few hours to recover her shattered self-confidence. A few hours in which to decide what she could do to find the murderer and clear herself.

  Yes, that’s what she’d do. She would take refuge in Ian Soria’s lair, then decide how to clear her name. Later, much, much later, she would lick her wounds and try to mend her broken heart.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Where the devil is she?” Charles Cartierri demanded, his voice loud enough to be heard over the blast of rock ‘n’ roll that shook the glass walls of Bogotá’s premiere nightclub.

  “I have no idea, sir,” Nick Troy said.

  Damian noted how his friend’s eyes probed the deep shadows of the buildings across the street and flicked up and down the neon-lighted thoroughfare of the entertainment district. So, Nick was concerned—either about Tiffany’s safety or her whereabouts. Damian was concerned about both. Where was she? Why had she run away just when it seemed she might finally trust him? Could she face him only when there was no one present who might refute what she told him?

  “Where did she spend last night?” Sir James asked, his negligent tone belied by his tense posture.

  Nick’s gaze darted to Damian, then back to Sir James’ face. “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Horseshit, Nick,” the older man contradicted. Signaling for a taxi, he herded them into a group, then wrangled them into the cab. “I think she stayed with you and I think that’s where she’s gone now. You bear a strong resemblance to my stepson William, TC’s late husband. I think she would trust you, Nick. I think she’d return to the place, to the person with whom she feels safe.”

  He almost bought it, Damian admitted to himself. But the fear in Sir James’ eyes, the sweat beading his brow, alerted Damian that Foster was not as forthright as he seemed. Nor did Damian believe that Tiffany would take the easy, obvious way out. If they found her at Nick’s, Damian would eat his velvet doublet.

  Charles Cartierri’s hand on his shoulder captured Damian’s wandering attention.

  “I want to tell you the truth about…her. In private.”

  Maybe he also would hear the truth about the stolen emeralds from his godfather.

  “And then,” Sir James said from the taxi’s darkest corner, “I want you to hear my truth about Em—about Tiffany.”

  “I’m sure you do, sir.”

  Damian had never been more certain of anything in his entire life. He just did not know whose truth might be the truth.

  * * * * *

  Since the older men had deferred to him, Damian signaled Nick that he would take the first round of questioning. Nick nodded, guiding the other two away from the living room. Damian waited until Charles Cartierri had settled in the overstuffed wingback chair, then sat on the sofa across from the older man. From the kitchen, he could hear Nick’s low but cheery voice offer Sir James and Emilio Santana drinks and their mumbled responses. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the flare of some quickly masked emotion in Charles Cartierri’s eyes, but by the time Damian looked fully at his companion, Cartierri’s face wore an expression of long-suffering forbearance. Then, as he drew a deep breath, his expression crumbled.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” Charles Cartierri said, at last looking at Damian. “Have you evidence…? Do you intend to arrest her?”

  “Where were you when the theft occurred?” Damian hoped Cartierri would not pretend ignorance of the theft Damian meant.

  He did not. “My wife and I were staying at the Georges Cinq. I was to examine the Belt on Friday—authenticate again, if you will.”

  “Is that the usual procedure?”

  “Not usual, but in this case—such a valuable artifact, shipped without a courier… Emilio and I decided re-examination was necessary.”

  “Why was the Belt shipped rather than couriered?”

  “So not to draw unwanted attention. Emilio supervised its shipment from Bogotá and Monsieur de la Croix—the bank manager—took receipt of it in Paris.” His lips thinned, then parted. “Does she need an attorney? I retain one here in Bogotá for business purposes, but—”

  “When did the Belt arrive in Paris?”

  “The Monday before the theft, I believe. My wife and I arrived in Paris on Wednesday, did a little sightseeing, relaxed.” He flashed a brief smile. “Played tourist, if you will.”

  “Why so much time between the Belt’s arrival and your re-authentication?” Damian wished he had a recorder, but decided to forego asking Nick for his. The rhythm he was establishing seemed more important than a verbatim record.

  “Again, Emilio didn’t want to draw attention to the Belt’s location. As far as the curator at the museum knew, the Belt would arrive a day or two before the exhibit opened, nearly a month later.”

  “A month after it actually arrived in Paris?”

  “Yes, Emilio… We both thought the Belt would be perfectly safe in the bank’s safe deposit vault. Especially since no one but Emilio, Sir James, the bank manager and I knew its location.”

  “You did not know that your daughter was responsible for security at the museum?”

  “At the museum, yes. I didn’t know she knew where the Belt was being kept.” He sighed, raked his perfectly styled hair with pristine, manicured fingers. “I suppose James told her.”

  “You suppose? Why should Tiffany not know where the Belt was? Was she not responsible for arranging its safe delivery to the Luxembourg?”

  “I don’t know who was responsible for transporting it between the bank and the museum.”

  “Mr. Cartierri, why would your daughter—”

  Cartierri sprang to his feet, distress in his eyes. “You can’t imagine how painful this is, having to reveal to a stranger, to an agent of the law, horrible things about the child one has raised.”

  Damian crossed an ankle over his knee. Draping one arm along the sofa back, he stared. Under Cartierri’s concerned façade, he sensed a stronger emotion, but what it was Damian could not begin to guess.

  “The trouble started,” Cartierri finally said, apparently unfazed by Damian’s silence, “the summer the girl turned ten. She began to steal things. At first it was only from Esmé and me—a bottle of perfume, a few coins from my change caddie—but, by the time her twelfth birthday came, she’d graduated to more expensive trinkets. It got so bad I couldn’t leave her alone in the workshop, let alone among the display cases. Esmé would have to strip the girl down to her skin every night to make sure she hadn’t stolen something from my shop or, worse, from the girls at school.”

  Cartierri brushed a nonexistent piece of lint from his coat sleeve, sighed heavily, then went on. “Of course, we got her the best help we could afford. Esmé wanted—”

  “Excuse me, but who is Esmé?”

  “My wife wanted to treat the girl herself, but I couldn’t allow that, of course. After all—”

  “Why not?”

  “As I was about to explain, Esmé, my wife, was too close to the girl to be objective. Besides, she spoiled the girl shamelessly and might well have been the cause of the problem.”

  “Was she?” Damian took growing satisfaction from his interruptions. Cartierri lost his rhythm, his irritation evident in his expression.

  “No, she wasn’t. Other therapists decided the girl’s kleptomania was brought on by adolescence and a need for more attention. The stealing stopped for a while. U
ntil the girl met William Foster. And, of course, William’s stepfather, James Foster. James was William’s mentor in every way.” He shifted a pointed glare toward the kitchen.

  “When was that?”

  “When she turned thirteen. Esmé and I took her to England. That’s when and where she met that son of Satan, William Foster. That’s where and when the girl started stealing from Esmé’s and my friends. And that is when she began stealing things of real value. Diamonds. Rubies…” He paused as if using the hesitation to point up his next words, as if he and Damian shared a secret no one else in the world knew. “And, of course, emeralds.”

  “Does that have some special significance, Mr. Cartierri?”

  For a brief moment Cartierri looked completely taken off-guard. Then he smiled, a momentary pulling back of his thin lips from even white teeth. “I thought it might be significant to you. I understand you gave the girl the name. Emerald, I mean.” He sighed, a long-suffering sound. “When the girl decided to marry William, a gemologist of some talent, I offered to adopt him. I needed an heir, someone worthy of inheriting CCartierri. But he betrayed me. The girl saw to that.”

  Rage as hot and uncontrollable as a forest fire surged through Damian and brought him to his feet. Someone at Interpol had a big mouth and Damian would bet his last dime he knew who. George Fox had more to answer for than his persecution of Tiffany.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Cartierri,” he said coldly. “Wait in the kitchen, if you will.”

  Pacing the living room of Nick’s cottage, Damian waited for his godfather to appear.

  “Time for a reality check, my man,” he said to himself, admitting he disliked Charles Cartierri. When compared to Damian’s own father, Cartierri seemed a sorry excuse for a parent. Still, he knew of worse. What Damian found hard to accept was Cartierri’s eagerness to sell out his own child. And his knowledge of Emerald’s nickname could explain why she—if indeed Tiffany were responsible for the thefts all those years ago—had managed to avoid arrest. Inside information from someone at Interpol would have ensured her freedom.